


roman holiday

by adreamaloud, daneorange (adreamaloud)



Series: clexa eternal au [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/adreamaloud, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamaloud/pseuds/daneorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clexa eternal au cycle 3, picks up after ‘the loneliness and the scream’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you ever want to be in love

**Author's Note:**

> This was the last thing I expected to pick back up after 'thunderlove' but I did miss writing Clexa so. Yeah. Plus, the clexa eternal au-verse needs a Clarke POV, doesn't it? So here it is. Here we have Clarke leaving the island eventually and returning to the city (and later, to their hometown). I prefer to be ambiguous about the passage of time, I hope this is all right. Writing Clarke in this 'verse proved to be more difficult than initially imagined -- after all, she did get her mind wiped, so working with a lot of blind spots was a good challenge. I hope it doesn't get too confusing.

 

 _i'm not waiting, but_  
_i'm willing if you call me up_  
_if you ever want to be in love_  
–james bay, if you ever want to be in love

1 |

On the day Lexa leaves the island, the sky is overcast and the clouds are gray for the first time in a very long while. It reminds Clarke of her black-and-white dreams back in the city; of a time when she still lived with Wells in their apartment, going from day to day.

(Clarke runs her thumb across the still-empty space where her ring finger meets her palm at the memory; it itches when she touches it, the absence making itself felt, no matter how slight.)

A week later, it starts raining. Clarke watches from her room as the rainwater crawls down her window gingerly, raindrops casting translucent shadows in their wake. Staring at the heavy skies, she thinks about Lexa—about clean slates and the past couple of months they’d just spent in make-believe; about her abandoned paintings, and the last bouquet of flowers Lexa left.

About Wells’ unanswered calls. Clarke winces as she eyes her phone, face down on the table. The rains mean that the summer is over, and Clarke knows a thing or two about things ending.

 _Sooner or later,_ Clarke tells herself, slipping out of bed finally. _The city beckons._

(There is no note – or at least, none yet; the note comes days later, and Clarke holds onto Lexa’s handwriting for as long as she could with her trembling hands.)

*

The pavement is wet when Clarke flies back into the city; it has just finished raining, and though the skies are clear, the city is colorless. It is worlds apart from the all the bustling color of the island – not that Clarke is surprised. Soon enough, she finds herself at their familiar doorstep, her travel-weary bones just about to give out.

“Welcome home,” Wells greets her softly, taking her luggage and her coat. There is a muted smile on his face, like he’s waiting for Clarke to say something in return.

Clarke smiles, nodding at him and touching his arm. “Hey you,” she says back, just as softly.

*

That night, Wells volunteers to spend the night in a hotel room, and Clarke is too tired to put up a fight.

*

For the first few weeks, it is business as usual – Clarke goes back to the office, sliding back into her city-worker skin seamlessly and hanging one of her island paintings on her office wall. It’s one of the sunset paintings she did with Lexa watching from the bed; it takes some getting used to, looking at it without hearing the waves coming in from the open window.

Clarke sighs. Some days, when she breathes in, she half-expects the air to be salty-sweet, but every time instead, her nostrils fill with the sanitized scent of the building’s centralized air-conditioning, and nothing deflates Clarke quite as quickly.

“The island sun looks good on you,” is how Raven greets her when they finally meet up again, coming to visit sometime around the end of Clarke’s first month back from the island. “But you feel like this city has already drained you enough, and just how long have you been back, huh?”

Clarke tries to smile. “It has,” she says, evading Raven’s question, shrugging as she takes a sip from her glass of wine. “How’s Bellamy?”

“He sends his apologies for not making it,” says Raven, shaking her head. “How are _you_?”

 Clarke bites her lip; she hasn’t seen Raven for a good while, and she isn’t quite sure where to start.

“Clarke?”

“Yeah?” Clarke blinks, shaking her shoulders out like doing so would clear her head. “I’m fine.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “That’s about the most unconvincing _I’m fine_ I’ve heard all my life, and I have been talking to _Bellamy._ ”

That makes Clarke laugh; Bellamy _is_ a rather horrible liar. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” she manages finally, watching as Raven grips her bottle of beer tighter. _No use running from it when it has caught up with me, time and again._

“ _Clarke_.” The way Raven says her name – like it’s a warning; like it’s a plea.

Clarke breathes in like she’s bracing herself. “Months after my mother died, I came back for her things.”

Raven’s eyes widen at Clarke’s revelation – it’s been _years_ since Abby died. “You—why didn’t you call? I was—we were _there,_ we would have—” Raven shakes her head, confused. “ _Why_ were you there?” _And why didn’t you say anything sooner?_

“I needed—something was _calling_ me back, I felt it. The tug was so strong,” says Clarke, watching the worry crease Raven’s brow. _Oh darling,_ she wants to say. _I haven’t even begun yet._ When Raven opens her mouth to say something, Clarke immediately puts a hand on top of hers, as if to say, _Wait for it._ Raven just nods, shutting her mouth and letting Clarke speak.

“I found my tape, Raven,” Clarke says finally. “ _Dr Mierzwiak’s_ office sent it to my mother shortly before she died and I found it in her things.”

Raven’s expression glazes over in confusion for a split-second before she pieces together what Clarke has just said – at which point the confusion shifts to alarm. “ _Clarke_.”

“It ran for five hours,” Clarke continues, reaching for her glass of wine and willing her hand to stop shaking. “It was all _Lexa_.”

For a long stunned while, Raven says nothing. In that tense moment, Clarke wonders how much of _this_ Raven knew – how much of _those_ years had been about keeping up appearances and making sure the operation _remained_ a success. Much of the years between the tape and today had been about _forgiving all that_ , though sitting here in front of Raven, Clarke is unable to stop a few choice _feelings_ from swimming up the surface.

 _Forgive and forget?_ Clarke tries not to think about how apt that saying is, no matter how trite.

 “Jesus, _Clarke,_ ” Raven sighs finally, gripping Clarke’s hand tighter. _What else is there to say or do?_ “Are you _all right?_ ”

Truth be told, Clarke’s never really heard this question until now – after all, she’s never talked to anyone about this until Raven. _No – until Lexa,_ she corrects herself in her head, only to bite down on her tongue lest she say something before she’s prepared for it. “It’s fine,” she finds herself saying instead. “It’s been a while.”

Raven just looks at her – head tilted like she’s wondering how Clarke could manage this _calm._ Clarke just swallows at the face of Raven’s concern. _Oh darling. The things I did to myself._ Clarke pushes the thoughts away, downing the last of her wine.

“On the island,” she continues, tilting her glass toward Raven, who takes the hint and refills it, no questions asked. “I saw Lexa.”

It takes a moment for Raven to catch the name. “What?”

“I was with her, actually.”

“ _What?_ ”

Clarke almost laughs at how _ridiculous_ this must come across – after all, wasn’t it her idea to come to Mierzwiak to wipe this person out of her mind in the first place? Hadn’t she spent _years_ living a newly reset life – a life she’d made with _Wells –_ away from here?

 _A different life entirely,_ Clarke just thinks, trying not to think about Lexa, that first night on the shore; her lips as she said, _We don’t have to talk about any of it._ Her face illuminated by the moonlight, her hair falling around her face.

 _How foolish I must have been, to think I could just keep_ running.

“ _Clarke,_ ” Raven says again, tugging at her wrist to shake her out of it. “What do you mean, you were _with_ Lexa?”

“I was on the island with her,” Clarke tries to reply matter-of-factly. When she thinks about the island, it is no longer just the sunsets or the bright blue water or the way the sand feels under her toes. When Clarke remembers the island – it’s the smell of the sheets wrapped around Lexa’s naked form; the taste of mango that lingers on Lexa’s tongue. Clarke clears her throat as it goes dry at the memory. “She was on vacation.”

“With her girlfriend?”

Clarke looks away at that, biting down on her lip, flustered by the term. “No,” she says quietly. “They’ve called it quits.”

Raven takes a moment to let that sink in, and Clarke almost feels sorry for dumping so many things on her lap all at the same time. “ _Christ,_ Lex,” Raven just mutters, lowering her face into her hands. “The two of you tell us _nothing_.”

“It’s not my place.”

Raven inhales, nodding and letting her eyes fall upon Clarke’s hand on the table, rubbing at Clarke’s knuckles with her fingertips and lingering where Clarke’s ring should have been but isn’t. “Are you even—you’re back _together_? Is that it?”

Of all the questions she prepared herself for, Clarke does not see _that_ coming. Clarke blinks, driving away the memory of Lexa sleeping in her hotel bed; the afternoon sun on her hair. “I don’t know,” she says, pulling away from Raven’s touch. “We agreed to leave everything on the island.”

“Including _your_ ring?”

Clarke flinches at that; she thinks about the flat she once shared with Wells; how nothing had really been the same since she kissed Lexa on the last night of her mother’s funeral. How it had been irreparable in the aftermath of The Tape.

“What Wells and I had,” she begins before trailing off – what was there to say, really? They’ve tried so hard. “It felt so much like… a _lie._ ” Her voice breaks at the last word— _how much of a monster had I become, even as I worked with a blank slate?_

“Clarke.”

“And Wells is a good man, it’s just—”

“Do you still love him?” Raven interrupts softly, and Clarke simply shakes her head.

“Not the way I’m supposed to, no,” she says. “Oh. The horrible things I did.” _If only to feel again._

“You did what you had to do.”

“And is that even true?” Clarke asks back, her voice too quiet, she’s almost unsure if Raven heard. “Did I _really_ have to do all that?”

“You didn’t know better.”

“And whose fault was that?” Clarke surprises herself by letting out a small laugh, though the sound is all pained and bitter. “I did this to myself.”

Raven sighs. “And suppose you did. What now?”

 _What now indeed?_ Clarke pauses to consider Raven’s question, noting the smile on Raven’s lips. “It doesn’t matter, no?” Clarke asks in return. “World spins madly on.”

“Something like that,” Raven says in turn, her smile widening as she raises her glass. “So. To forgiveness?” The word comes out gingerly; like Raven’s asking for it for _herself._ The thought leaves Clarke too tender.

_Oh, the things I did, the things I did, the things I did._

*

Later, at the end of the night, Clarke and Raven part at the corner to ride different cabs.

“So. You and Wells?”

“Over.”

“And… you and _Lexa_?”

Clarke breathes in, digging her hands deeper into her coat pockets, mindful of the wind. “There’s just… too _much_ of it, you know? We hurt each other. And I _remember—_ all of that. I’m not sure.”

“I’m sorry,” says Raven. “What about what happened at the island?”

“It was just that – a _moment,_ ” Clarke says, exhaling slowly. “Summers are not forever, and forgetting is so damn long.”

*

Weeks turn to months. Clarke moves out of their flat, but stays loosely tethered to their firm – after all, the business needs her. Wells tells her as much.

Clarke stays in touch with Raven, but only sparsely – she knows the weight she presents to Raven now: This reminder that Raven had once been complicit to an elaborate lie. Clarke wonders if Raven had told Bellamy, or if she’d kept her returned memories a secret. _An easy way out,_ Clarke figures. Truth be told, she won’t be surprised at all, had Raven kept their conversation to herself all this time.

Lexa slips in and out of her mind still, but now that she is no longer living with Wells, the memories come to Clarke less painfully. Some days, she even manages a painting or two — putting down something straight out of her memory, like a view from one of the smaller islands off the main shore, or the hotel’s façade at some point of the day, or.

 _Else, there’s always Lexa._ The sketches are simultaneously the easier and more torturous ones – it’s like Clarke’s brain had been extra greedy about hoarding memories, this time around. Clarke doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry at this realization.

Some nights when she couldn’t sleep, Clarke stays up through morning, just drawing Lexa from memory – looking out the window, her hair up in a messy ponytail; or, sitting on the shore in her bikini, her legs crossed underneath her on the sand; or, half-immersed in sea water, her head turned to the side, sunlight bathing her face. In all the drawings, Lexa’s smiling peacefully, like she’s content and _full,_ and _oh,_ Clarke just thinks, _all my kingdoms for one more day just like this._

Some nights, when Lexa doesn’t come to her in sketches, she comes to Clarke in her dreams, moving in full color against a black-and-white backdrop. Always, she turns to Clarke with her hands outstretched and her eyes too kind. Her lips don’t move, but Clarke hears it anyway: _Whatever we want, Clarke._

(And always she wakes with a jolt, her pounding chest aching.)

*

When the proposal comes, Clarke’s breath gets caught in her throat, and she does not immediately manage to respond.

“Well?” Anya looks at Clarke expectantly, sitting in her office and _smiling_ like she knows Clarke is going to say yes anyhow. “What do you think?”

Clarke stares at the blueprint in her hand, before eyeing the photographs that Anya had brought as well, laid out side by side on the table. “It’s…” Clarke trails off, blinking. The empty space has potential – but is Anya even _serious_ about coming to her with this plan? “Anya, I know you mean—I mean, it’s an _honor_ , of course it is, but _restaurant_ interiors are not really my forte.”

Anya rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think you could do it, Clarke,” she says. “Besides – it’s not like I know anyone else.”

Clarke bites her lip. She has contacts – she has a _network_ of people who actually _worked with_ restaurant spaces, people with a wealth of relevant experiences who would be more suited to what Anya’s trying to accomplish here, but then again.

 _But then again._ Clarke sighs, eyeing the blueprint and Anya alternately. _This one doesn’t look like she’s about to take no for an answer_. “Fine,” Clarke says finally, rolling up the document in her hand and stowing it for safekeeping, before reaching for the photos and gathering them as well. “I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

Anya laughs, relieved. “Of course I do,” says Anya. “After all — you’d come highly recommended, you know?”

 _So. If you ever need an office redesign. Or know someone who would._ Clarke’s stomach sinks at the memory of that moment she first handed Lexa her card during her mother’s funeral.

_If you ever want to talk about finance._

“Lexa said—”

“Yeah,” Clarke cuts in. _Does Anya know about the island?_ She lets herself wonder briefly before pushing the thought out of her head. _Has Lexa told anyone, for that matter?_ When Clarke looks at Anya, Anya just tilts her head, like she’s wondering about where Clarke goes when she gets all thoughtful and _distracted_ like that. “Sorry. I mean, Lexa, yeah – I remember your friend. From the funeral.”

Anya breathes out, shoulders relaxing. _She does not know?_ “Yeah, she gave me your card. Which I already had, actually, but if my business partner thinks you’re the one—”

“Your business partner?” Clarke swallows hard, willing her voice not to quiver.

“Yeah, she’s—Lexa’s looking for an investment prospect,” says Anya. “In our old hometown. You know how it goes when people get old.” There’s a small smile on Anya’s face, and Clarke knows this should remind her of their early days – the tape has so much _Anya_ in it that it ultimately breaks her heart that she remembers none of their younger days, or at least, not directly.

“So. You’ll do it, right?”

Clarke nods, surprising herself. “I’ll do it,” she says, against all the thoughts in her head telling her to take a moment and _think_ about this _. What’s a little challenge?_ she tells herself instead.And by _challenge,_ of course she means restaurant interiors. _Something new._ Of course.

“When do we start?”

*

It is larger than Clarke initially imagined.

She moves around the space carefully, idly touching the still plastic-wrapped chairs sitting in a corner before walking slowly toward the middle of the room, looking up at the ceiling. The paint is chipping in places, and there are stains where leaks have been left unattended for _years_. Clarke grimaces at the thought before turning her head to stare at the blank concrete walls; the sight fills her with a shiver that she cannot fully explain.

“A lot of work to be done?” Anya calls out from the door. Clarke whips her head around, startled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb.”

Clarke shakes her head, affording a faint smile. “Are you _absolutely sure_ you want me on this?”

“A hundred and one percent,” Anya nods. “Whatever you want, Clarke.”

For a moment, Clarke is stunned. _Whatever we want, Clarke._ She blinks as the image of Anya blurs slightly at the edges; she’s getting dizzy. _It’s the heat._ “Can I—may I step out for a moment?” she says, eyes now on the floor as she rushes past Anya without even waiting for her response.

The last thing Clarke remembers is how the floor tiles are askew, and she tries to focus on that as she breathes in upon stepping out, knees wobbly. Right then, a quick gust of wind; _this place is full of ghosts,_ she just thinks, blinking at the silhouette of tree leaves against the bright blue sky. It’s funny, calling this place their _hometown –_ it feels nowhere near home at all.

“Are you all right?” asks Anya, nudging Clarke with a bottle of water. “You seem pale.”

“Just tired from the travel,” says Clarke, taking Anya’s offer and taking a quick sip. “My crew is coming in two days. I’ll be supervising for the first few days, but feel free to appoint your own representative to oversee the renovation.”

“That would be _me,_ actually,” says Anya. “I got babysitting duty.”

“Luck of the draw?” Clarke asks back, an attempt at lightness.

“Lexa’s on extended _travel._ Or something,” she says. “Where are _you_ staying?”

Clarke bites down on her lip. She thought about just renting a hotel room, but she knows how ridiculous that is, considering her mother’s house is empty. “Maybe a hotel,” she lies. And then, more quietly: “Maybe my mother’s.”

“Oh.” Anya quiets at that, seemingly uncertain of how to proceed. “Any way we can help?”

“I’m fine.” The reply slips out, clipped and curt, and even Clarke herself _knows_ how that sounded — not like she could help it. “But thank you. For your concern.”

Anya shrugs. “You should call Raven. Or Bellamy, even. They’d be happy to know you’re in town.”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, searching her pockets absently for her phone. When she finds it, wraps her hand around it tightly, like she’s making a quiet note in her head to call. _Maybe tonight._ “I will. Set up a dinner or something. Once I get the house sorted.”

“Looking forward to it,” says Anya. “Would you like to get back in or—”

“I’m okay for today,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “Sorry. Do you have elsewhere to be? I didn’t mean to throw your schedule off.”

“Not a problem at all,” says Anya as she locks up. She hands Clarke a small envelope as she approaches her on the sidewalk. “Your keys,” says Anya. “We can’t wait to see what you make of it.”

Clarke tries to smile, even as the lump that’s settling quite uncomfortably at the bottom of her throat grows steadily, pushing against her skin.

“Me, too,” she just says softly, swallowing hard as she takes the keys from Anya, trying to keep the shake out of her hand.

*

Her mother’s house is exactly as she left it, and the air feels just as thick and heavy as the last time. Clarke walks in and it feels like she had to part some invisible curtains, granted how stuffy the place is; she holds her breath just long enough to get to a window, pushing it open with a creak to let the air in.

_God, I should have gone to a hotel._

Clarke stares at her bags, still unpacked right in the middle of the living room. Books sit quietly side by side in a shelf across the windows, undisturbed for the longest time. The picture frames are gone – Clarke had taken them all down, choosing instead to carry photos in a small album with her – and there are pale, square-shaped spaces on the wall upon which they once hung. Around Clarke’s bags, the couches are still covered, but she makes no move to remove them; for some reason, she can’t bring herself to touch anything.

Not that she could blame herself – the last time she was here…

 _Jesus, Clarke. You’re going to be here for God knows how long._ She breathes in and tries to hold a sneeze at bay. Light pours into the living room from the newly opened windows, and for a moment, Clarke thinks she can see a shadow of the old house she once knew.

 _Or at least, the old house that’s left in my head._ Clarke’s head throbs at the realization. It has been _years_ since the tape _,_ but still she carries the weight of the _absence_ in her head – the intentional gaps and voids. She wonders briefly if Lexa had ever—

 _Lexa._ Clarke braces herself against the back of the nearest couch, the cover dusty with years of disconnect.

_Why am I even here?_

*

It gets better as soon as Clarke gets busy. Her crew arrives as scheduled, and soon enough, her mind fills with the possibilities she’d mapped out for this space – conveniently dislodging for the moment thoughts about her mother and Wells and the tape.

 _And Lexa,_ she thinks belatedly before shaking it out of her head. _Come on, Griffin. Focus._ She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to isolate the sound of that one worker methodically chipping away at the paint in the far corner. The space is alive with the noise of movement – worker boots pacing on the tiles; old wood being pulled apart; the whirring of power tools here and there.

“Ms Griffin?” Clarke gasps at the feel of someone tapping her shoulder gently, interrupting her. “Sorry for disturbing, but there is a Ms Reyes looking for you outside.”

 _Raven._ Clarke approaches the door in a half-run, tugging her apron off and tossing it into a hamper by the door. She is covered in sawdust and the smell of paint, but she doesn’t really care; she’s been meaning to see Raven, it’s just—

“ _You._ ” Raven gets to her before the thought even finishes in her head, rushing into her and wrapping her in a warm hug. “Hey there, stranger. How long have you been back?”

Clarke holds on for a moment longer, basking – she hasn’t been held in _so long_ and god, sometimes, Clarke thinks, _sometimes_ this is all she needs. “Just a handful of days,” she says as they part, and Raven tucks Clarke’s hair behind her ear with a small disapproving shake of her head, like Raven’s _disappointed_ somewhat that she didn’t see Clarke sooner. “I’m sorry. I meant to call.”

The look on Raven’s face softens. “Not your fault.” And then, shifting her eyes to the work behind her. “You’ve been _busy._ ” There’s a strange lilt to Raven’s last word, and Clarke swallows hard. “This is a bad idea, Clarke. You know that, right?”

Clarke laughs, forcing out the sound. “I know restaurants are not exactly my thing, but god Raven, your vote of confidence would be nice.”

“Not what I meant,” says Raven, rolling her eyes.  

Clarke looks over her shoulder for a moment, trying to peer into the small gap she left at the door. Inside, it is business as usual, as her crew proceeds as instructed. “Anya doesn’t know anything, does she?”

Raven shrugs. “As far as I know,” she says. “We haven’t spoken much, after. You know.”

“Of course.” Clarke wipes her hands against the front of her jeans. _Do we have to discuss this now?_ Clarke breathes in, looking up. The day’s damn _fine –_ surely there will be _other_ days to talk about it. “Hey, listen. You want to grab some lunch? I am _famished_.”

That seems to perk Raven up considerably. “ _Actually,_ ” she begins, raising her finger. “If we could wait a moment.” Raven glances at her wristwatch before looking around, prompting Clarke to look around the street in kind, curious as to what Raven’s talking about. “Damn, late _again._ ”

“ _Who_ is late again?” Clarke asks, though at the back of her head, she thinks she _knows_ what Raven has up her sleeve. “ _Raven_.”

There’s a small smile on Raven’s lips as she slips her phone out of her pocket. “Wait a sec,” she says, turning around. Clarke steps closer and playfully wraps herself around Raven from behind, propping her chin on Raven’s shoulder, and Raven lets out laugh. _God, I have missed this,_ Clarke thinks, watching as a car pulls up by the curb.

“About fucking time,” says Raven, throwing her hands up and hitting the side of Bellamy’s car with an open palm. Clarke laughs loudly as Raven struggles to free herself from Clarke’s hug.

“ _You,_ ” Clarke greets, moving from behind Raven to poke her head into the passenger side window.

“You’re _late,_ ” Raven says again.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Bellamy replies, scratching at his nape. His hair had grown longer, the unruly mess of it framing his face softly; there’s stubble on his chin, and it makes him look so much _older_ than Clarke remembers. He smiles as he turns to Clarke. “Look who’s back in the ‘hood,” he says. “Long time, Clarke.”

Clarke grins right at him, before excusing herself to retrieve her phone from inside the restaurant and letting her crew know that she’s leaving. When she steps back out, Raven and Bellamy are leaning against the hood of his car, talking with their hands, their shoulders touching. _These two,_ Clarke thinks absently. _They might as well._

Clarke clears her throat, prompting Bellamy to look up. Upon seeing her approach, he pushes off the hood of his car and moves to gather Clarke in a hug. Clarke melts into it, expectedly; _so much warmth in one day,_ Clarke thinks. _Is there any way I could save these hugs for a rainy day?_

“How have you been, Princess?” asks Bellamy, rubbing at Clarke’s shoulders. Off the faint smile that Clarke barely manages, he continues: “Where are you staying?”

“My mother’s.” It’s out before Clarke could stop herself, and even Raven takes a step closer upon hearing.

“You all right?” Raven asks, brows creasing with that familiar worry Clarke could recognize from afar. “Need help settling in?”

“I’m fine—”

“Raven,” Bellamy interrupts gently, rattling his keys in one hand. “Clarke must be hungry. Aren’t you?”

“ _Famished,_ I said,” says Clarke, thankful for the temporary break that Bellamy has allowed her.He turns around and heads for the driver’s seat. _Does he know?_ Clarke turns to Raven, who in turn tugs at her hand, pulling her toward the back seat.

“Does he know?” she whispers when Raven gets close enough, and Raven just lifts her brow slightly, shaking her head.

“Up to you,” Raven whispers back before telling Clarke loudly to get in. Bellamy starts the engine as Raven shuts the door after her, scooting closer to Clarke. “You do know how to get there, don’t you Bell?”

Bellamy adjusts his rear view mirror before replying, “Of course.” And then, catching Clarke’s eye: “We hope you’re hungry.”

Right on cue, Clarke’s stomach grumbles faintly, and Clarke puts a hand over her stomach lightly. “I definitely am.”

*

Clarke spends the drive with her eyes glued to the passing scenery. Bellamy drives past a route that Clarke’s never been, and she wonders just how much else has changed since the last time she was here. _Not that I was here for sightseeing that last time._ She tries not to sigh too audibly at the thought.

Perhaps sensing Clarke’s quiet amusement with the view, Raven says nothing to her throughout the drive, opting instead to keep some sort of conversation going with Bellamy – a bit about the road here, something affectionately disparaging about Bellamy’s driving skills there. Bellamy’s laughter fills the car pleasantly, and every now and then, Clarke catches his gaze on the mirror, Bellamy squinting at her as he grinned.

An hour passes smoothly and soon, Bellamy’s driving down a brief rugged path, which leads to a small gate. Bellamy parks right beside the entrance, before turning around to look at them. “Well. We’re here.”

Raven puts a hand on Clarke’s knee. “You all right?”

“I swear to god Raven, the next time I hear that question—” Clarke trails off in a shaky laugh. She doesn’t want to start feeling like she’s burdening all of them with an all-too-fragile thing.

Raven nods, smiling. “Okay then, let’s change that to – you _hungry_?”

“ _Much_ better.”

Bellamy opens the car door for them, allowing Clarke to clamber out first before playfully tugging at Raven’s arm. Clarke steps back, watching their back-and-forth affectionately. _These two._ Wrapped up as she has been all these years in her personal crises, Clarke hasn’t exactly had the opportunity to follow Raven’s relationship with Bellamy.

_Whatever this is, at least they have each other._

A loud grating noise jolts Clarke out of her thoughts. It’s Bellamy pushing the heavy steel gate open. Raven snakes her arm into Clarke’s, falling in step beside her, gravel crunching under their shoes.

“Where are we?” Clarke asks as she peers through the gate.

“Just somewhere,” says Bellamy. “Come in and find out.”

The gate opens to a garden, and Clarke lets out a long, low whistle. There’s a huge bronze statue in the middle of the stone pathway that divides the lawn, and Clarke slips away from Raven to walk over and admire the work. Aside from the three of them, the place seems empty, save for the gardener who is busy tending to the flowers in the far corner of the lawn.

“Gorgeous, right?” Raven says, catching up with her. “Bellamy’s discovery.”

“Found it while scouting for shoot locations,” says Bellamy. He has taken a camera out – this small, compact thing now hanging from his neck. He lifts it to his eye and motions for Clarke and Raven to look at him, and instinctively, Clarke presses closer to Raven and pulls her in by the waist. “Say cheese.”

Bellamy takes a few shots before Raven motions for him to come over. “Here,” she says, pushing her phone into Bellamy’s hand. “Take one for Instagram.”

“ _Jesus._ ”

“What, are you still allergic to _filters?_ ” Raven shoots back. Then, to Clarke: “Bellamy’s an Instagram snob.”

“I am _not,_ ” says Bellamy. “Raven here just loves her filters a _bit_ too much.” Clarke feels Bellamy’s hand squeeze her shoulder as he pulls the both of them closer to fit into the screen.

“Take the damn photo, Bell,” Raven just says, and Clarke has to laugh out louder at the image that gets frozen in Raven’s screen: Raven with her tongue out, Bellamy with his eyes closed and Clarke, wide-eyed, her mouth parted in a half-smile.

It is _exactly_ how that moment feels.

*

The house just beyond the statue turns out to be a small restaurant, and Bellamy goes ahead and speaks with the owner. Clarke wanders some more in the garden with Raven walking idly beside her. The air smells of grass and the faint waft of something brewing in the kitchen.

“How has this stayed hidden all that time?”

Raven shrugs. “Exactly what I told Bellamy when we first drove here.”

Clarke finds herself smiling absently at that. “Like a _date_?”

“ _Clarke._ ” Raven rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “We’re friends. It’s for the best.”

 _For the best._ Clarke breathes in deeply, enjoying the cool breeze under the shade. For a quiet while, she and Raven just stand there, leaning against a tree and watching Bellamy through the window, talking and laughing with a woman with an apron. The smile on her face is _warm;_ Clarke can feel it, even from this distance.

“Bellamy and I,” Raven breaks in, gently. Something in Raven’s tone puts a cloud over Clarke’s heart. “We’re here for you. You know this.”

 _Here we go._ “I know.”

“Not that I know what’s best for you, but—”

Clarke knows where Raven is going; Raven doesn’t even have to say anything, but Clarke feels it anyhow – the _weight_ of her confession. “I’ll tell him,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I had no right to put this on your shoulder alone—”

“That’s _not_ what this is about.”

“I’m still sorry, though.” _Damn,_ Clarke thinks, trying to ignore the sting at beginning at the corner of her eye. “But I will. I _want_ to.”

“It’s just—you already cut us off far too many times,” says Raven, wrapping a hand gingerly around Clarke’s wrist. “No more, okay?”

“Okay.” From inside the house, Bellamy ends his conversation as the woman turns back around to walk back into the kitchen, and Clarke takes it as their cue to enter the house. “We probably should.”

“We should,” Raven says, hold tightening.

*

Cynthia, the woman Bellamy was talking with, joins them for lunch. Widowed young, Cynthia opens her house every now and then to guests who more often than not want to use her scenic grounds for photo shoots. “Bellamy covered my daughter’s wedding,” she tells them, beaming. “I still have those pictures in the guest bedroom – hers when she comes over.”

Clarke smiles. She doesn’t really remember if Bellamy’s always been into photography, but these days it just gets easier and easier to dismiss all these small forgotten things as a consequence of her brain having been tampered with. Clarke blinks. _Do not drift away, Clarke,_ she reminds herself, trying to focus on the conversation at hand.

There’s a pottery shed in the backyard, Cynthia says, and they agree to check it out after their meal. While not among her strongest suits, Clarke dabbles in pottery every so often, so the prospect of seeing someone else’s work thrills her. It’s been a while since creating has been more about _art_ than work, and she finds her heart drumming excitedly in her chest.

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat as Cynthia opens the door – something about the sight stills her heart, though Clarke can’t quite put her finger on it. She feels Raven press a hand against the small of her back gently, like she’s nudging Clarke to step out.

“It’s okay,” Raven says.

“It’s _more_ than okay,” Clarke says back, though she knows that wasn’t what Raven was saying. “I mean, can you see this?”

The back door opens to more than just a pottery shed – in fact, the backyard is bigger than Clarke expects. _God, everything is always more than what I expect,_ she just thinks, tracing with her eyes the slight downward slope of the lawn. There’s a small pond on the left, lined by small cement figures. _Dwarves? Gnomes?_ Clarke feels a smile stretch her face. She watches Bellamy and Raven follow Cynthia on the stone path that leads to the shed, their steps careful. Tree branches whisper above their heads in the midst of the breeze.

 _I have been here before,_ Clarke finally figures, straining against _that_ space in her head that’s blocking the full memory from coming to the surface. _Of course, Lexa._ She wonders what had once brought _them_ here – who were they with? What did they do? _God, was that why Cynthia was looking at me so softly?_ Clarke wonders if she’s been warned not to say anything, too.

Clarke follows Raven and Bellamy into the shed, and after making a quick survey of the space, Clarke notes how the shelves are lined with mismatched ceramics – gorgeous clay pots with intricate designs that are never quite finished; piles of plates, imperfectly round and unevenly glazed. There’s even an entire shelf dedicated to multi-colored mugs with hairline-thin cracks, and another one containing mid-sized candle holders and scent diffusers – Clarke even recognizes the half-smudged logos on them from some upscale spa in town.

There is nothing wrong here, none really, or at least on the _surface_ , and Clarke watches Raven’s confused expression as she lifts a mug to closer to her face.

 _But they’re there,_ Clarke thinks. Not a judgement but an observation. _Mistakes._ She almost says it out loud as she touches the irregularly shaped bowls, smoothing her fingertips over their cracks and chipped edges. They come in pleasant colors – mint green and ochre and lavender – and Clarke feels a small twinge at the way she could picture them sitting in her mother’s old kitchen.  

“If you see anything you like, feel free to take,” Cynthia says, settling beside her gently as she lifts a giant rose-colored mug off the shelf. “They’re not going anywhere otherwise.”

“Too generous,” Clarke says. She quietly lifts a small mug in kind, glazed in mint green and white. “May I?”

“Please,” she says. “Bellamy tells me you’re an artist.”

Clarke laughs – she hasn’t been feeling like _that_ at all. “I’m an interior designer, actually.”

“He tells me you’re a painter.”

“A hobbyist,” Clarke clarifies. After all, when was the last time she painted something she _wanted to_? _Not since the island,_ she thinks. Her fingertips itch at the reminder. _Lexa._ “I was into ceramics _very_ briefly. I was never too good at it.”

“Too dirty?” Cynthia asks, though not unkindly. Perhaps she’s mistaken the movement of Clarke’s fingers for something else.

Clarke shakes her head, pocketing her hand. “Too impatient,” she says. “Sometimes I hold on too tightly, they break.”

“Ah,” says Cynthia, smiling softly at her. “That happens.”

Biting down on her lip, Clarke is finally unable to keep her question in. “If you don’t mind my asking–your shed, it is full of—I mean, the items on the shelves—”

“Rejects, all of them,” Cynthia goes ahead and says it anyhow, matter-of-factly even. Clarke isn’t so sure just how an artist of her stature would take comments like that, so she opted to err on the side of caution; she’s glad she did. “Several of them are from set projects—I couldn’t bear to throw them away.”

“But they didn’t make the cut.”

“Surpluses of the process,” says Cynthia, looking around. “I like being reminded.”

“Of failure?”

“Of trying.” Even Clarke can’t help the smile that breaks out on her lips in kind. “Tell me Clarke, when was the last time you painted something?”

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Something I liked enough to see to the end, or just _something_?” she asks, because there’s a difference. _The last time I finished something, I—_

We _were still on the island._ Something twitches in her chest at the realization that the last piece she finie di shed was probably one with Lexa in it.

“Just _something,_ ” Cynthia says. “Just because it isn’t finished, doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”

That gives Clarke pause – she is reminded of her half-filled sketchbooks and rolled up canvases, stowed in cupboards and drawers; all these nearly forgotten unfinished attempts at _something._

“You say that only because your ‘unfinished’ works are still beautiful things,” Clarke says, relishing the blush that it prompts upon Cynthia’s face.

“Show me yours then,” Cynthia says, recovering. “And I’d probably tell you the exact same thing.”

They share a brief round of laughter after; when Cynthia talks, her voice is low and barely above a whisper, so Clarke has to lean closer to hear all of it. They talk more about Cynthia’s ceramic work, and Clarke’s preferred medium, until Raven comes over to ask Cynthia about something – an obvious diversionary tactic.

_What now?_

From the corner of her eye, she notices Bellamy slip out the door. _Oh,_ Clarke just thinks. _This now, then._ Clarke walks out after him in kind, coming up behind him just as he slips out a cigarette and lights up.

“I thought you’d quit,” Clarke greets, side-eyeing him.

Bellamy shrugs, gingerly transferring the cigarette to her other hand, away from Clarke’s side. “ _Thought_ being the operative term,” he says. “Soon, maybe. Who knows?”

“Bellamy,” Clarke begins, and Bellamy tilts his head toward her, curious. “I have something to tell you.”

“If this is about the five minutes that I am subtracting to my _lifetime_ just by smoking this one stick, I’m afraid that I’ve already heard that before.”

Clarke feels her smile waver for a moment, thankful for Bellamy’s sense of humor. “I found my tape,” she finds herself saying. _No other way to do this._

Bellamy blinks. “What tape?”

“The one _Lacuna_ sent back to my mother before she died.” It’s out just like that – she’s replayed this phrase over and over in her head, and so often too, that right now there is actually no tremor in her voice as she delivers it. _Practice makes perfect._ “And I have listened to it. In full.”

Bellamy’s smile fades from his face. _He knows._ “Clarke.”

“And it was a five-hour tape, too.” Clarke attempts a laugh now; still, it falls flat, or at least to her ear. _Practice makes perfect._ “That’s a long conversation to have with anyone,” she says. “A long conversation to have with anyone _about Lexa._ ”

Bellamy mutters something under his breath, before taking a long drag. _Is he angry?_ Clarke wonders. Bellamy turns his head away to blow out the smoke, but even then, Clarke’s nostrils fill with the smell of cigarettes. “Shit, Clarke,” he says finally, stubbing it out. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s a long time ago,” says Clarke. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. I just—I thought you should know.”

“Are you mad at us?”

“I did this to myself.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “We _lied_ to you.”

“Because I basically told you to.”

Bellamy breathes in, fiddling with the breast pocket of his shirt, toying with the pack of cigarettes stowed there. He doesn’t look at Clarke, and she doesn’t blame him. “ _I’m_ still sorry.”

“This is not really what I wanted to say,” she says quietly. And then: “When I was working at the island, I saw Lexa.”

“ _What?_ ”

Clarke has to laugh at the look on his face. “God, you sound just like Raven.”

“I do _not,_ ” says Bellamy, rolling his eyes. “Also, you’re changing the subject. I asked a question.”

“Technically, you only asked me to repeat what I said, so here it is: I saw Lexa on the island.”

Bellamy squints his eyes at her, like he’s figuring out the next thing to say. Clarke finds it endearing – she hasn’t hung out with Bellamy in _so long,_ and she almost feels sorry that it is _this_ that she decides to dump on his lap.

“Saw as in _saw_ , or…”

Clarke sighs. No use skirting it. “We were… _together,_ on the island. A couple of months.”

“ _Jesus,_ Clarke,” he just says, rubbing at his forehead. “Lexa has a _girlfriend._ ”

“Not at the time, she did not.”

“ _What?_ ”

“They’ve ended it.”

“And Wells?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Ah, _shit,_ ” Bellamy sighs. He keeps shaking his head until he is laughing, and until Clarke is laughing along. _What a mess we have here._ “What do you want to do, Clarke?”

Clarke shrugs. Damn if she hasn’t been asking that question herself since Day 1.

“I just want to finish the restaurant,” she just says, after a while. “That’s all I want to do.”


	2. find you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We shift back to Lexa’s POV for this one – always an irresistible thing. One more chapter in Clarke's POV before we wrap this one up. Thanks for giving this cycle a chance =)

2 |

 

 _I'll run away with your footsteps_  
_I'll build a city that dreams for two_  
 _And if you lose yourself_  
 _I will find you_  
\- zedd, find you

 

“Have you been talking to Raven?”

“No.”

“Well, she’s been talking to _me,_ and I really think you should take a look at our conversation.”

Lexa glares at Anya from across the living room, briefly taking her eyes off the screen of her laptop. “I _really_ do not think so,” she says. She has an inkling or two, what it could be about: _Clarke, who else?_ Lexa sighs, shifting her eyes back to her work – these spreadsheets are not due until the end of the week, but she might as well.

“You _told_ me it was okay to get _her_ onboard this project,” Anya reminds her, voice softening. “If you’re changing your mind—”

“There are men already in place,” Lexa says, mustering enough strength to say that nonchalantly. “Besides – we both know _Clarke’s_ the best. We’re lucky she agreed.”

_The least we could do is say her name out loud._

“I had her the moment I dropped your name.”

Lexa shuts her laptop momentarily at that, if only to stare at the ceiling. _Fucking Anya._ Lexa hadn’t set out to build a business here, not at all, but then Anya just had to rope her into this. _The rest, as they say – fucking history, that is what._ She still hears Anya’s answer when Lexa first told her she and Natasha were through—

_Come the fuck home then, Lexa._

Not that there were too many options, especially after the island.

 _That fucking island._ Lexa screws her eyes shut, blocking the memory of it out. Some days, it is so easy to fall back into it – the sea and the salt; the sun and the sand. The memory of Clarke in _their_ room, that white shirt she always wore with all the buttons open, the way her voice dropped whenever she said, _Please don’t move—_

 _Please get out of my head._ Lexa presses a hand against her forehead, like it’s going to make her feel any better.

“Lexa,” Anya says again from across the room, and Lexa burrows further into the couch. _I really should have gone to a hotel,_ she thinks idly. Days like these make Lexa wonder if it’s time to get her own place altogether; sure, she has been here for only a couple of weeks, and she isn’t even really sure she _wants_ to move back into this town in the first place, but _still._

Still, having her own flat would probably save her from Raven’s text messages to Anya, for example.

“You really shouldn’t have told Clarke I was on this.”

Anya shakes her head. “No more lies.” Lexa tries not to flinch; she’s always known that Anya’s the most opposed to the Lacuna operation, and that in their group, she is still the most unwilling to go along with the charade.

“Did you tell her—”

“She called you my _friend from the funeral._ I don’t think she even knows you’re already in town.”

Lexa sighs. _Maybe it’s for the best._ “Good,” she says. “That was still a risk, you know. What if she _refused_?”

“And she did _not,_ ” says Anya. “Besides – if she did, I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”

 _Typical Anya,_ Lexa thinks, finally letting a smile break across her face, no matter how faint. “Yeah, you wouldn’t have.” And then, relenting: “Fine, what did Raven say?”

Anya pushes off the couch with a smirk, crossing the living room to sit beside Lexa. Anya holds her phone out for her to see. “Here. Have a look.”

Lexa takes a moment before finally conceding. _Just a peek._ When she squints, the first thing she sees is Raven’s goofy face, and a small laugh even manages to slip out of her throat before she registers the rest of the photograph.

 _Oh._ Lexa feels her mouth go dry at the sight of Clarke, frozen in the frame. “Oh.” Lexa clears her throat, now seemingly filled with cotton balls. “She’s _here._ ”

“They’re at Cynthia’s,” Anya fills in, nudging Lexa’s shoulder with hers. “You okay?”

Lexa blinks. _Damn it._ She hasn’t seen Clarke since the _island_ , and seriously, this shouldn’t even count because it’s a _just_ a picture. _If I cannot touch it, it isn’t real._ Still, she reaches out and traces the edges of the photograph with her fingertips, laughing lightly at the sight of Bellamy’s closed eyes.

“Bellamy still can’t take a selfie to save his life,” Lexa says instead, and Anya humors her by laughing along briefly. “They’re at _Cynthia’s._ ” Lexa rubs her thumb over Clarke’s jaw – _it’s just a picture –_ sighing as she turns away from Anya’s phone.

The memory of that afternoon comes to Lexa in sharp colors – the greens and yellows and reds of Cynthia’s garden; the bright blue of the clear skies; Clarke’s white dress.

Lexa draws in a sharp breath– that photo shoot had been Clarke’s idea _(Really, it’s no big deal, Lex – Bellamy needs it anyway for his portfolio. So – how about we dress up and help a friend?)_  and oh, how Lexa had loved that dress.

_Whatever we want, right?_

“You’re spacing out again. Where did you go?”

Lexa shakes her head, eyes shut. “You know where.”

Silence drapes upon them as Lexa opens her laptop again and tries to find where she left off in her file – a difficult task, considering that the image of Clarke’s half-smile is already burned at the back of her mind. Anya stays seated beside her on the couch, their knees touching.

“She’ll ask about you, sooner or later,” Anya says.

“I know.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Lexa takes a moment, worrying her spacebar pointlessly before shutting her laptop and standing. _I can’t be here._ “Whatever you want,” she just says before heading out.

*

She shouldn’t have come back, but it’s not like there is anywhere else to go – sure, she had briefly entertained thoughts of starting anew in a completely different city, but in the end, it was what it was: An entertaining thought, and nothing but.

In the aftermath of The Island, Lexa could not bear to stay put; it was like every day she spent standing still was a day spent warding off Clarke’s ghosts. Returning to Natasha’s city shortly after, Lexa realized just how _unmoored_ she had been, and that this city, no matter her best efforts over the past handful of years, had never really been hers.

_Come the fuck home, Lexa._

Truth be told, it was that phone call to Anya that did it – a threat and a promise rolled into one. At the time, Lexa had been city-hopping on assignment, jumping from one forum to the next, until Anya caught her, finally.

_Come home._

Many nights, Lexa slept with Mierzwiak’s card between her fingers; oh, how _light_ that would have been, to travel sans all that _weight_. Once, she came close to actually calling, only to turn back on the third ring, lowering her phone with a shaky hand.

 _Don’t you dare._ Still, Anya rings in her head, and rings in her head – until finally, Lexa decides to pack her bags for the last time and fly back in.

The day she arrives in their hometown, Anya is there to pick her up. They say nothing throughout their drive; Anya doesn’t even ask her where she’s staying, automatically assuming that Lexa is taking her guest bedroom. Not that Lexa minds; after all, this won’t be the first time that she does.

Which brings Lexa to today – the noontime sun harsh on her nape as she takes a slow walk around the block, trying to clear her head. The years between have rendered what should be an all-too-familiar route almost beyond recognition. Gone are their usual haunts – including the flower shop in the corner, which Lexa mourns the most.

Anya’s restaurant – well, technically, _their_ restaurant – stands to replace an old coffee shop they had frequented, once upon a time. That they are taking over such a _personally significant_ spot is actually among Anya’s deciding factors, admittedly; _better by us than by someone else,_ was what she’d said.

Lexa is already across the street when she notices a familiar car slowing down as it approaches the curb near the restaurant. _Shit._ Lexa steps behind a nearby tree in an effort to conceal herself. _Is that Bellamy’s car?_

 _Jesus, this walk is a bad idea,_ Lexa thinks, taking a peek from behind the tree, her heart stopping as she sees Raven stepping out first. _Yes, that is definitely Bellamy’s car._

_Now what?_

There’s a loud round of laughter as the car’s engine is turned off. _God._ Lexa could pick out which among the voices is _Clarke’s,_ and _Christ,_ what she wouldn’t give to not be here right now.

Lexa starts counting in her head, just to have _anything_ to focus on, while listening in for the sound of the car being revved back to life. She tries to make out snippets of their conversation, but she’s standing a bit too far to properly eavesdrop – the most she could hear is Raven’s trademark drawl, and the responding rasp at the edge of Clarke’s voice, and _damn it._

 _If I cannot touch it, it isn’t real._ Lexa tries not to remember the way Clarke had looked in the photo – her face so open and _bright,_ it made her fingertips itch just from the thought of holding her face in her palms.

 _Shit._ The sound of Bellamy’s engine startles Lexa briefly, and she carefully peers from behind her tree again, watching as the car rolls out, leaving Clarke standing at the curb with her hands in her pockets, her gaze faraway, like she’s waiting for the car to disappear from her line of sight.

 _You’re here._ Lexa digs her fingers into the tree, like she’s rooting herself on the spot; like if she doesn’t hold on tightly enough, she’d cross the street and go up to her, if only to look at her more closely. _If I cannot touch it, it isn’t real._

Lexa tries not to imagine how that moment might feel like.

“Lexa?”

_Shit. Did she just--_

“Lexa!”

For a split-second, Lexa meets Clarke’s eye in a panic – _I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here –_ and Lexa takes advantage of the confusion that washes across Clarke’s face to turn around and bolt.

 _I shouldn’t be here._ Behind her, Clarke keeps calling, and just as Lexa has always done, she just keeps walking on.

*

“You _what_?”

Lexa groans. “I _know._ ”

Anya lets out a laugh. “Christ. Is that why Clarke hasn’t stopped calling me?”

 _Oh Jesus._ “Probably. God, Anya, what was I thinking?”

Anya makes a show of canceling another of Clarke’s phone calls before lowering her phone on the table and sliding it across the table toward Lexa. “Which part are we talking about here? Do you mean the things you did on the island or—”

“ _Anya._ ”

“Okay then, just the creeping from across the street earlier today. Got it.”

“I was _not_ creeping.”

“Just hiding behind a tree and _then_ watching Clarke stand there from across the street. Not creeping at all, hell no.”

“Well, when you put it that way--”

They are interrupted by Anya’s phone buzzing against the table top, and Lexa can no longer ignore the way Clarke’s name keeps blinking at the screen.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Lexa asks softly.

Anya shrugs, nudging the phone closer to Lexa. “Aren’t _you_?”

 _Fuck._ Lexa bristles at that, but she takes Anya’s phone in her hand anyway. “Anya, this is _your_ phone,” she says, trying to hand the vibrating thing over, but Anya just puts her hands up and shrugs.

“But that is definitely _not_ my phone call.”

 _Fuck._ Lexa looks at the blinking screen and breathes in, taking a moment before swiping to answer.

“Hello? Anya?” Clarke’s voice comes to her amid the tell-tale noise of power tools whirring in the distance.

 _She’s here for work, not for you._ Lexa swallows hard, her eyes closed. “Hello, Clarke,” she says, her voice shaky at best.

Clarke takes a long moment before responding.

“Lexa?”

*

It feels a lot like dipping her toes back into the freezing ocean—that giddy mix of shock and a measure of _pleasure,_ though Lexa is careful not to use that word while thinking about Clarke, of all people.

They start slow – Clarke often starts the random messaging in the middle of the morning, with Lexa holding back and not letting the back-and-forth go beyond three or four replies. Clarke talks about the renovations, mostly – checking in every now and then to update about the progress of the work there, and Lexa wishes _more than anything_ that she could stop seeing _this_ as something else.  

 _There’s nothing there,_ Lexa reminds herself. _You left everything on the island._

The Island – years on, and Lexa still hasn’t seen any day quite like it. Some nights, she still dreams of _all that_ – try as she might not to crave Clarke’s touch, the truth of the matter is, there are far too many mornings when it’s all she ever wakes up to: The ghost of Clarke in her bed.

And now here she is: Just a name on the screen. “You should check out the green I used here,” Clarke texts, and Lexa’s mind wanders briefly into the memory of _their_ old apartment and those weeks they spent repainting its walls. _Brings out the color of your eyes._

 _Whatever you want, Clarke._ Lexa takes a moment to stare at her reply before deleting it. Lexa sighs, trying another: _It’s really up to you._ She squints at the screen before deleting that, too. _Why must this be so difficult?_

“Maybe we should ask Anya,” Lexa replies instead, lowering her phone on the table. _Well, that was a safe answer._ She has already started pacing around the room, trying to shake the nerves out of her legs, when her phone vibrates with Clarke’s reply.

“I’ll text her then,” Clarke just says. No smiley, no punctuation even. _That’s it, folks._ Lexa breathes out, thankful to have survived another mid-morning conversation.

*

Of course, Anya thinks the avoidance is pointless. “Jesus, Lexa,” she says, exasperated. “You are _literally_ within a mile’s radius of each other. Why can’t the two of you just get together like proper adults?”

Lexa winces. She understands Anya’s frustration, especially since Lexa been running into Clarke awkwardly all week – _and_ being sulky about it. “I _know_ ,” she just says this time, and Anya just rolls her eyes. “I just—she’s always a _surprise_ , is all.”

“Has anybody ever told you how _smitten_ you are? Because you are, you know. So, _so_ smitten.”

“ _Anya._ ”

“I still don’t understand – you’re obviously still in love with her—”

“Ahn, please.”

“So why fight it? Does it have anything to do with the fact that you’re _not_ on a secluded beach somewhere? Is it the fact that _we’re_ also in the city with you guys? I mean – is it _us?_ ”

“You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“And _should_ it?” asks Anya, and Lexa just sighs. “You’re already talking anyhow. What’s the matter with you guys?”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want _nothing,_ ” Anya clarifies. “You, on the other hand.”

 _I want._ Lexa breathes in and stops herself. _It’s the wanting that is the trouble._ “Clarke clearly has been better off without me.”

“I’d say the same for you,” says Anya. “But I really don’t know what that even means— _better?_ Different, maybe. But better? Who’s to tell?”

“Indeed,” Lexa just says. She normally wouldn’t want to admit that Anya’s right, but in this case, she is willing to concede as much. “Call it what you want though – still doesn’t change the fact that we’re always leaving each other.”

“Who’s to tell?” Anya says again, the look on her face softening. “Maybe you’ll do it right this time.”

 _A do-over; how about that?_ Lexa smiles absently at the thought. _I should be so lucky._ “Maybe,” says Lexa. “Maybe we can even be friends.”

“ _Sure_.” Lexa doesn’t have to even look at her to catch Anya’s massive eye-roll. And then: “Do you _seriously_ believe that?”

“It’s not that bad—”

“ _Lexa._ Wake up – you’ll _never_ be friends. You’ll _always_ be in love. Even when it hurts – fuck, even after one of you gets her mind wiped. _Completely_.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Lexa says, voice small, and _defeated,_ and _isn’t this exactly how it feels right now?_ Lexa blinks and shifts her gaze, afraid that the sting beginning at the corner of her eye would give her away.

“Like how?”

“Like it’s never going to get better.”

Anya opens her mouth to say something, only to close it again and say nothing in the end. Lexa is more grateful than curious. “Listen,” Anya says finally, after contemplating the rest of her words. “If you want to be friends, then you have to stop awkwardly bumping into each other all the time. At least.”

 _Yeah. Not like my heart doesn’t lodge itself in my throat at the sight of her; not that she makes it difficult to breathe every time._ “Right,” Lexa ends up saying instead.

“Which reminds me–our place is due for a soft launch. How much longer are we going to put that off? They’re almost at 100 percent.”

Lexa feels her throat go dry at that. _Sooner rather than later,_ she just thinks.

*

“Anya’s here.”

Lexa blinks at Clarke’s message – her first for this morning, arriving in Lexa’s inbox just as scheduled. Lexa takes a sip from her mug of coffee and tries to ignore it, opting to focus on the paper she’s currently struggling to keep reading, instead.

“She’s always there,” Lexa texts back, after a while. She has tucked the paper away – it is pointless to keep trying once her mind’s been filled with _Clarke._ “Do you have any concerns for me, specifically?”

 _Well, that was pretty blunt._ Lexa wishes she hadn’t sent that, beating herself up quietly as she stared at her phone screen.

“I was wondering when I’d be seeing you again.”

 _Well, shit._ Lexa lets her thumb hover over her screen, uncertain. ­ _If it were up to me, I’d be right there,_ she just thinks, though of course that’s not quite the thing to say, is it? _The trouble is in the wanting._

Lexa must have taken so long to answer, because Clarke sends in another message without waiting for a reply: “Are you skipping the soft launch entirely because you don’t *want* to see me? Because it’s more important that you’re there and if that’s the case—”

 _Ah fuck it._ Lexa doesn’t even finish reading; instead, she finds herself (against better advice) swiping across Clarke’s name. She breathes in and _waits,_ steeling her nerves as Clarke’s phone starts ringing. _Hold on, hold on—_

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you.” Lexa launches into it right away, not bothering with pleasantries, and all Clarke manages from the other end of the line is a soft _Oh._ “I mean, we _always_ see each other, don’t we?”

“None of those actually count,” says Clarke. “We have _never_ stayed put--”

“Apologies for the awkwardness,” Lexa interrupts. She braces herself against the kitchen counter, watching her knuckles paling against the corner as she held on. “You still have quite… _an effect._ ”

“Really?”

 _Shit._ Lexa closes her eyes, drawing in a breath. “Please do not make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, there’s just—I just have so many questions, Lex, and I—”

“ _None of this leaves the island –_ wasn’t that what you said? I’m just—I’m holding up my end of the deal, and you--”

“And _you,_ ” Clarke counters. “You _knew_ Anya wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you I was her partner.”

“You really hadn’t intended to show yourself to me.”

“I really do not intend to hurt you again.” A long silence. Lexa chews on her lip as she paces across the living room, phone warm in her ear. Oh, to just _hold_ Clarke after saying something like that. _Fuck, everything’s coming out wrong._ “You know that’s all we do, right?”

 _This is how it is with you and me._ Lexa tries not to drown in the memory of that last day, when all they did was tie up loose ends, legs tangled in bed, wrapped in nothing but sheets.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be about hurting each other,” Clarke ventures, a long while later. “Maybe we could even be friends.”

Lexa almost laughs, remembering Anya’s reaction. “ _Friends._ ”

“Or—whatever, just… people who talked to each other on the street, sometimes. People who lingered for more than the split-second it takes to avert our eyes. That sort.”

“Remember the last time we tried that?”

“ _Whatever we want –_ remember that?”

Lexa lets a shudder course through her spine at Clarke’s words; a part of her is thankful this is happening over the _phone,_ because she is certain she looks every bit like the mess that she actually is.

“I also remember how I always leave in the end,” Lexa offers.

“Yet here you are,” says Clarke.

It hits Lexa like the proverbial kick in the chest. _Yet here I am. Stuck in your orbit, all these years._ “Yet here we are,” Lexa concedes.  

“Are you still—I wanted to ask if you wanted me to skip the soft launch so you could attend it? Your presence is clearly more important than mine, and I could—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Clarke,” says Lexa softly. “No one is skipping the soft launch.”

Lexa hears Clarke take a deep breath, exhaling low and long. “So,” Clarke says, after a while. “I’ll see you then?”

_Whatever we want, Clarke._

“I’ll see you.”

*

Standing behind the bar, Lexa fiddles with her collar as she watches the restaurant slowly fill with people. Anya and Raven are at the door greeting visitors as they come -- close friends, mostly, and the occasional plus-one or two. The handful of faces she recognizes, she remembers from Raven and Anya’s college org – it was the same crowd that frequented Raven’s sets, once upon a time, and in the end Lexa is unable to stop a fond smile from spreading across her face.

“Just like old times, eh?”

Lexa turns to Bellamy, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “Hey you.”

“And you,” says Bellamy, offering Lexa some grapes from the bowl he obviously stole from one of the tables. “How’s that mystery investor thing going for you?”

“Shut up,” says Lexa, rolling her eyes and popping a grape in her mouth. “Long time, Bell.”

“I was wondering when you’d fly in,” he says. “For a moment there I almost thought you wouldn’t make it to this launch.”

“Not about to miss this for the _world,_ ” Lexa says. “I’ve just been—”

“Busy,” Bellamy supplies. “I know.” He pauses for a bit, picking another grape off the pile. “Clarke told me so.”

 _Clarke._ Lexa shifts her gaze nervously toward the door, like the mere sound of Clarke’s name would suddenly summon her. “You were at Cynthia’s together,” Lexa counters instead. “Raven sent Anya a photo.”

Bellamy groans. “Are you talking about the one I took?”

“With your eyes closed and everybody else seemingly unprepared for it – _yes_ ,” Lexa teases. “At least it did not have filters.”

“Small mercies,” says Bellamy. Lexa chuckles at that and they share a brief round of laughter, before Bellamy quiets down. Lexa feels a weight settling upon her heart at the sight of him in somewhat deep thought. “Clarke told me about the island.”

“She did?” Lexa wonders briefly, why she feels at all surprised – had she really expected Clarke to keep it in, after all these years? Not like she has managed that herself.

“I’m sorry about Natasha.”

“It was ending anyhow,” Lexa says. “It was always ending. I was just waiting for it.”

“And what about Clarke?”

Lexa sighs. “You know how I feel about Clarke.”

Bellamy starts saying something, only to be cut off by loud squealing at the entrance – Raven and Anya are gushing over a newcomer, and Lexa feels her stomach plummet as she turns her head toward the sound.

_Clarke._

“Showtime,” Bellamy mutters under his breath, tapping Lexa’s wrist on the table. “You ready?”

 _As ready as I could ever be – which is barely._ Lexa swallows hard – it’s the first time since _that_ incident from across the road that she’s seeing Clarke _this close_ again, and Lexa tries to keep breathing as she watches Clarke laugh with Raven and Anya at her side. She is wearing a jacket over her navy blue dress, and Lexa tries not to stare past the hem of it, which ends halfway down her thigh.

 _Stop._ Lexa shifts her gaze, blinking away choice memories of Clarke under the sun; the image of her bare paint-streaked legs as she paced around that hotel room, brush between teeth.

_Stop._

“Hey.”

Lexa startles at the sound, looking up from where she’s scratching at the bar top. _Clarke._ “Hey,” she manages after a while, for a moment simply standing there, stunned and lost in Clarke’s eyes.

Clarke smiles at Lexa tentatively, fingertips resting not too far from Lexa’s arm on the table – like she’s wondering if she could _touch._ “You’re here.”

“As promised,” says Lexa, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself. _Shit._ “Sorry—I just. I meant – of _course_ I’d be here.”

Clarke laughs lightly, and Lexa holds her breath as she feels Clarke brush her hand against her wrist briefly. _Oh._ Lexa tries to breathe out slowly; tries not to make a sound. _And you’re here._ “I’m glad to see you,” says Clarke.

Lexa tries to smile back, like she isn’t the least bit _scalded_ by Clarke’s small gesture. “Likewise,” she replies, trying to keep her hand still. “Great work you’ve done here so far, Clarke.”

 _Clarke._ Saying her name to her face after such a long time feels like coming up for air after being underwater for so long.

“We’ll be done in less than a month,” says Clarke, looking up; try as Lexa might, she can’t help but stare briefly at the slender column of Clarke’s throat, before following Clarke’s line of sight: The ceiling still needs some work, and there are some upper wall areas that need repainting.

“There’s no rush,” Lexa says. “Take the time that you need.”

“And I tell you all we need is three weeks tops,” Clarke replies. She touches Lexa’s hand more boldly now, allowing her hand to rest above Lexa’s more comfortably. To Lexa, it still feels like something’s burning, but Clarke’s still smiling at her, so she supposes she’ll be fine.

_I will be; won’t I?_

“Listen,” Clarke’s talking again and Lexa watches the light shift in her eyes as Clarke draws her hand away. “I just have to talk to some people for a bit—and I don’t mean to keep you from going around yourself—”

“You’re not,” Lexa quickly interrupts, and Clarke just laughs louder; for the first time in a long while, Lexa finally allows herself to think about just how much she has missed that sound. “And please—don’t let _me_ keep you.” _Please stay. Please don’t go._ Lexa bites down on her lip instead, if only to stop the words from getting out _._

“So. Later?”

“Yeah.” Lexa watches as Clarke turns around, waiting to see who she’s talking to next, straining her neck in her effort not to lose sight of her in the crowd.

“She’s not going anywhere, Lex.”

 _Anya._ Lexa shifts her eyes back to the woman now talking to her. “She’s _here_ ,” she just finds herself saying.

“Well. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Were you watching?” Lexa winces. “Did it look every bit like the train wreck that it really was?”

Anya shakes her head. “You looked like… old _friends_ ,” she says, taking some time to settle for a description. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 _The trouble is in the wanting._ “She says she just needs three more weeks to finish,” she says instead, changing the subject.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, it means in three weeks the ceiling will have been fully painted, and—”

“ _Not_ what I meant,” Anya says gently. “I meant: What does that mean for _you_?”

Lexa scans the crowd, stalling; she doesn’t quite know how to answer. She tries to distract herself with the pleasantly sized crowd now milling about in their space, and that comforting buzz and clatter above their heads. Anya lets her be, busying herself with the bowl of grapes that Bellamy has left.

“She’s leaving, isn’t she? As soon as she’s done?” Lexa asks, after a while. By then, she has already located Clarke in one corner, in a huddle with four other men – her workers, Lexa presumes, judging by the way they alternately look up and point at the ceiling, their arms crossed in front of their chests.

“I don’t know,” says Anya. “Maybe she could afford to hang around for a bit. After all, she’s staying in her mother’s old house. Has she mentioned that?”

“No.” Lexa feels a lump start forming slowly at the base of her throat. _Abby’s house._ She hasn’t been by in a good while; perhaps it’s for the best.

 _And tonight, Clarke is going home to that house._ Lexa tries not to imagine Abby’s old bookshelf; tries not to imagine the worn couch in the middle of the living room and the empty jars that used to line the tiled kitchen counter.

Tries not to imagine _Clarke_ walking past the door or drawing the curtains and opening the windows or climbing slowly up the stairs to get to her old room—

“You all right?”

Lexa swallows hard and blinks. “I’m okay,” she says, clearing her throat. “I guess this means we have three weeks.”

“Guess you have to make the most of it.”

Lexa shrugs, and Clarke chooses that moment to look over her shoulder and meet Lexa’s eye from across the room. Clarke smiles at her, the corner of her lips turning up slowly, as if she were uncertain that Lexa is _indeed_ looking back.

 _Christ,_ Lexa thinks, returning the gesture with a slight lift of her brow. _Three weeks_. _How is anything going to ever fit into three weeks?_

*

Raven hosts the party, just like old times, and Lexa is all too grateful for the opportunity to be distracted, no matter how brief. Lexa watches as Raven spins from the makeshift DJ booth they had set-up for her at the mezzanine, staying behind the bar with Anya and Bellamy, who are taking turns mixing drinks from whichever bottle they happen to get their hands on first.

“I think Raven hates us already,” says Anya, a slight slur already at the tip of her tongue. Bellamy laughs, taking the shot glasses from Anya’s hands and offering one to Lexa.

“Raven doesn’t hate us,” Bellamy says.

“She specifically told us not to get wasted without her,” says Lexa, taking a whiff off the drink now in her hand. “ _Jesus Christ,_ if you’d wanted to serve me industrial-grade ethyl alcohol, I believe there are cheaper ones somewhere—”

“We are still _refining_ our mix,” Anya interrupts, tapping her shot glass against the bar top and elbowing Bellamy to follow suit. He shrugs, glancing over at Lexa before tossing his drink back with a hiss.

Lexa regrets it immediately, the liquid shooting down her throat in one fiery mess. “ _Fuck,_ ” she says, coughing lightly and wiping at the corner of her lips with a thumb. “You could run a small generator with this.”

“Just what Raven ordered then,” says Bellamy with a smirk, filling a shot glass and setting it aside. _For Raven,_ Lexa thinks as she glances over, noting the three shot glasses filled to the brim with differently colored liquids that are currently sitting side-by-side, untouched.

When she shifts her eyes back to Anya, she has already refilled Lexa’s glass. _Again._ “Next.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Anya laughs right before draining hers, and Lexa takes a moment to enjoy the drunken blush on Anya’s cheek. Above their heads, Raven is slowly hiking the tempo amid the swirling lights. “Come on. We haven’t had a night like this in _ages._ ”

Lexa blinks. The room is now pleasantly blurred along the edges, and the air is warm around her shoulders, heavy like a damp towel. _Shit._ “Not that your schedule has allowed for a night like this often,” says Lexa before taking her shot, trying not to gag at the bitter acid that catches at the back of her throat.

“Don’t talk to me about _schedules,_ ” Anya fires back, and Bellamy has to laugh out loud himself.

“ _Ladies,_ ” he interrupts in mock seriousness, twisting open another bottle entirely – _how many different drinks have we been mixing all night,_ Lexa wonders. “Let us keep in mind what tonight is actually about—”

“What _is_ tonight actually about?” Lexa feels the air leave her chest at the sound. _Clarke._ “And god, that looks _lethal,_ Bell.”

“Hey there,” Bellamy greets, reaching over to take Clarke under his arm. “We’re just… doing an _inventory_.”

“By drinking off every imaginable bottle on display currently?” asks Clarke, narrowing her eyes at the three of them. She lingers on Lexa, and Lexa tries to dismiss the heat on her cheek as the alcohol, and nothing but.

“How else can we be sure what is in those things, right?” says Bellamy. “And besides – we have the owners’ express permission.”

“Right,” Clarke says, laughing and nodding.

“Would you like to join our inventory effort, Clarke?” Lexa offers. “There’s plenty for everyone.” Anya makes a small approving sound as she slides a glass toward Clarke wordlessly.

“Well?” Bellamy lifts the glass off the table and hands it to Clarke himself. “You were asking what this night is actually about, yes?”

Clarke looks at Lexa before shrugging like she’s saying, _Fuck it, right?_ She takes the glass from Bellamy and sips carefully, never taking her eyes off Lexa as she does.

 _Fuck it,_ Lexa thinks, grabbing her own and drinking in kind, slightly surprised at how _mild_ this mix is, compared to the others they have been downing all night. “Fuck you Blake,” she says, though the smile on her face betrays just how much she had actually enjoyed that. “This round is basically _juice._ ”

“You complained about _ethyl alcohol_ earlier. I will never get it right with you, will I?”

Anya rolls her eyes. “I’ll drink anything, but I’m with Lexa on this round, Bellamy – you held back on the gin.”

Bellamy shrugs. “I thought I’d ease Clarke into it.”

“ _What?_ ” Clarke shoves Bellamy by the shoulder and Lexa hears Anya laugh louder as Bellamy lets out a yelp. “Are you calling me a lightweight?”

“Your words not mine,” he says, and Clarke drains the rest of her glass effortlessly for show. Lexa holds her breath at the sight, in that split-second inundated by the memory of a night spent on the shore of some faraway island. _Perhaps another lifetime entirely,_ she just thinks, staring at Clarke’s neck and imagining the ghosts of hickeys and scratches past.

Anya’s elbow digging at Lexa’s side jolts Lexa out of her thoughts, and Anya clears her throat before telling Bellamy to line up the next shot. “Double the gin, half whatever juice you have there, yes?”

“I’m a literature major, not a chemist,” Bellamy says, his laugh low in his chest.

Lexa finishes Bellamy’s _refined_ gin mix just as Raven winds her set down, and soon Lexa finds herself shoulder-to-shoulder with Clarke, applauding Raven as she gets down from her makeshift DJ booth and joins the still-dancing crowd. The lights swivel above their heads, illuminating their faces in quick sweeps, like watchtowers guarding the shore.  

“Hey,” says Clarke softly, nudging Lexa with her shoulder. “Hi.”

 _Do I have to be sober or drunk for this?_ Lexa wonders, looking around for either Anya or Bellamy, only to find that they have left. _Those fuckers._ “Hi,” Lexa manages finally, swallowing hard and squinting in the dark. The swiveling lights are starting to give her somewhat alcohol-soaked brain a migraine.

“You okay?”

Lexa smiles. “I’ve had more sober nights,” she says. “This body has seen better days.”

“Liar,” says Clarke, reaching out and wrapping a hand lightly around Lexa’s wrist, and Lexa feels all the alcohol in her veins troop to that one space, heating it and heating it. “The years have been good to you. You look well.”

“And you’re probably drunk.”

“ _Lightweight,_ ” says Clarke, and the slur at the end of it betrays her ultimately. “Or maybe it’s the fact that I have been drinking all night anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. My crew likes to drink,” she says, gesturing to the table in the far corner which houses her huddle of men. “I try not to say no all the time.”

“You should have said no when we offered,” says Lexa, by now already slowly getting accustomed to the feel of Clarke this close. _I cannot get used to you again; the trouble’s in the wanting -- the trouble’s in wanting you._

_The trouble is always you._

“Raven the DJ,” Clarke says instead, fingernails scratching at the underside of Lexa’s wrist. “That was a thing, no?” And then, after a long pause: “A you-and-me thing, right? That’s why I remember none of this about one of my own best friends.”

“Clarke.”

“It’s different, you know? Hearing myself on the tape and being… _actually_ here. Like we’re reconstructing a memory.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke—”

“Why are you sorry? Because I lost it? That’s not your fault--that’s on me.”

“You shouldn’t have had to. _That_ part was my fault.”

“We’ve been beating ourselves up for far too long,” says Clarke, swiping her thumb across Lexa’s wrist. “Don’t you think?”

Lexa wants to say: _I am tired too;_ wants to say: _If only I can let it go._ “You know how I feel about _this,_ ” she finds herself saying instead.

_Like you are the shore; like you are the tide; like you are the entire damn ocean, and I can no longer swim._

“And I still remember how _we_ felt on the island,” Clarke says.

_Like you are the sea wrapped around an island; like you are the radiant sun, and I am all too warm and I am drowning._

“You said to leave everything there. That’s what I’m trying to do—”

“And this is not—this isn’t about me wanting to bring that island here, or anything – this _isn’t_ the island, I know, but I also know I have two more weeks, and I can’t stop thinking about you.” Clarke tightens her hold around Lexa’s wrist at that, and Lexa holds her breath. “So can we just—”

“Clarke.”

“What?” Clarke lifts her eye off Lexa’s wrist, meeting Lexa’s similarly wide-eyed stare. _Yes,_ Lexa just thinks, feeling her chest cave and splinter as she pulls Clarke closer.

“Stop talking,” she just says, quieting Clarke with a kiss.

 


	3. in your hands

3 |

 _so i'll wait for that day_  
_when i hear you say_  
 _don't drop me 'cause i'm hopin' to land_  
 _in your hands._  
\- joshua radin, in your hands

 

 

 

 

Clarke doesn’t quite understand what is happening, but she decides to go with it anyhow, letting Lexa come and go as she pleases; letting Lexa _stay._ Some mornings, Lexa shows up at her doorstep, coffee and bagels in hand, and Clarke just lets her in wordlessly, letting Lexa move around her mother’s house expertly, like she’s been here hundreds of times before.

 _Hundreds of times – and not one that I could_ actually _remember,_ Clarke thinks, watching Lexa move about in the kitchen, sunlight in her hair, messily done up in a bun. Clarke notes the ease in which Lexa switches between drawers, and all too often she finds herself looking away, overwhelmed.

_You belong here, don’t you._

“You moved the knives,” Lexa calls from the kitchen counter, and Clarke pushes herself up straight against the kitchen door frame.

“Hm?”

“They used to be here,” says Lexa, before yanking another drawer open. Wood grates against wood heavily, and Lexa lets out a small sigh as she finds what she’s looking for. “Ah. Never mind. They’re here.”

“Which knife?”

Lexa lifts it to eye level – it’s one of the smaller ones, and she’s using it to chop up some apples. “Want some?” she asks, grinning at Clarke as she pokes through a small piece and pops it into her mouth via the tip of the knife.

“I have no idea why you have to chop it up when I could just bite off it slowly,” Clarke says, taking one of the apples sitting on the counter. Lexa shakes her head, making a small disapproving sound.

“And let your mother’s knives go to waste?” she says, taking another piece upon the knife’s edge and offering it toward Clarke, and Clarke leans in to take it after a moment’s worth of hesitation. “See? Easy.”

Clarke chews carefully, relishing the sweetness in her mouth. “I still can’t believe my mother’s knives have been kept well all these years.”

“Had I known they’d just be staying here I would have taken them with me.”

“You should have,” says Clarke.

“They’re not mine.”

“But you love them.”

Lexa sighs, finishing the apples and running the knife under water. “I’m not very good with things I love,” she just says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Clarke lifts her brow as she picks an apple off Lexa’s pile. _What to make of that, then?_ These days have been all about making peace about all these questions and never quite getting any answers. “Please take my mother’s knives,” she says instead.

“I will, after you leave.” There’s a long silence as Lexa leaves it at that, and for a while they just take turns idly taking from the pile, nursing a mug of coffee each as they stand facing each other on opposite sides of the kitchen island counter. “You should consider staying.”

 _I am,_ Clarke wants to say, wrapping her hands around her warm coffee mug at the thought. “I’m not thinking about that, not yet.”

“All right then. As you wish.” Lexa looks out the window at that, both hands wrapped around her own mug in kind. The sun is already out, but it is early enough for Clarke to enjoy the chilly morning breeze sweeping into the kitchen. “What’s on your schedule today?”

Clarke blows upon the surface of her coffee gently before taking a slow sip. “I actually wanted to show you something at the restaurant, if you’re not busy.”

“I’m not,” says Lexa. “We could go whenever.”

They finish their coffee slowly in silence. Lexa keeps looking out the window, and Clarke can’t help but stare at Lexa’s profile, softly lit just like this. She wonders how many _real_ mornings she’d actually had, standing across Lexa in this very kitchen, once upon a time.

Perhaps her mother would have put the coffee on for them, too.

“You all right?” Lexa turns to her slowly, lowering her mug back on the counter. “Are you crying?” _Shit._ Clarke wipes at her face quickly, though she does not really catch herself fast enough for it to go unnoticed. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s nothing,” Clarke says, trying to brush it off by casually collecting Lexa’s mug and heading to the sink, her back to the rest of the room. “Just something I remembered.” And then, catching her phrasing of that, she finds herself even laughing. “Or maybe something I did not. Whatever, it does not matter.”

Clarke has already begun running her hands under the water when she feels Lexa settle beside her, hip steadied against the sink.  “You and me and Abby,” Lexa begins, her voice blending pleasantly with the sound of the water hitting the mugs. “And a lot of bread. Your mother was a fan of toast.”

Clarke finds herself laughing at that. Her mother’s memories have never really felt intact in her head – perhaps because Lexa is entwined in so much of them. _Grief fogs the mind –_ wasn’t that what Lexa said at the funeral? “She was?”

“And pineapple jam. And peaches,” Lexa adds softly. “Your mother had a sweet tooth. Like you.”

“I remember so little,” Clarke says, after a while. She turns off the tap, reaching over for one of the kitchen rags before proceeding to dry the mugs; she tries not to gasp too audibly at the feel of Lexa’s hand meeting hers at the rack.

“Let me help,” says Lexa, hand wrapping around Clarke’s through the cloth. And then, softer still: “What do you want to remember?”

Clarke shuts her eyes at the feel of Lexa leaning closer, engulfing her; unmoving under her touch.   _I want to remember: A younger me and a younger you. A time when all the burdens tasted differently._

_The color your eyes get in the early evenings. Afternoons spent out in the rain, if any._

_Mornings like this._

“Tell me more about my mother,” Clarke says instead, and Lexa just presses a kiss against her forehead gently before beginning.

*

That conversation lasts well into the evening; they don’t leave the house for the restaurant anymore, preferring to spend the day on the couch instead, just talking. Lexa speaks in a soothing, steady voice, and Clarke, on occasion, has to bite down on her lip to keep from crying.

“Why fight it?” asks Lexa, kneading Clarke’s ankle absently as it sat on her lap.

“It’s _distracting,_ ” Clarke says, sniffing anyhow as she rearranges herself on the couch. “Besides – maybe if I start, you’ll start crying too, and where would that leave us, eh?”

Lexa laughs, though to Clarke it sounds sadder than probably intended. Lexa continues her story and does not dispute Clarke’s theory.

It ends only when Clarke nods off briefly, her legs curled above Lexa’s lap. She doesn’t feel Lexa leave for the night, but in the morning when she wakes, she is alone in her own bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, a blanket pulled up to her shoulder.

*

Some nights, Lexa does dinner, catching Clarke after a full day’s work at the restaurant instead. Lexa drops by around past five, knocking on the door and nudging it open with a hip, turning to Clarke with cans of Coke in each hand.

“Thirsty?”

Clarke tugs her gloves and apron off, walking over to Lexa with an exhausted smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.” The way Lexa shyly offers the can puts a blush on Clarke’s face. _Look at us, pretending this is all new._ “How’s work?”

Clarke takes a sip as she gestures to the place – almost at 95 percent now, just the finishing touches left. “We’re right on schedule,” she just says, tugging at Lexa by the wrist and dragging her over to one of the corners. “I’ve been meaning to consult about the color we used for this panel.”

Lexa looks up – and oh, how Clarke enjoys tracing the outline of her jaw when her face is tilted like this. “This color is perfect,” says Lexa, shifting her eyes back to her, and Clarke looks away quickly to hide the fact that she’s been _staring._ “Loving the deep space vibe.”

“Anya’s orders,” says Clarke. “Personally, I think it’d go well with Raven’s set and some disco lighting.”

Lexa’s laugh is crisp. “Raven would _love_ that.” And then, upon taking a brief glance over at where Clarke has a hand wrapped around Lexa’s wrist, the look on Lexa’s face softens to a smile. “You should put up some glow in the dark things. For old times’ sake.”

“Hm?”

“You loved those,” says Lexa. “We used to—I mean, when we lived together. One of our old apartments—”

“Ah.” Clarke remembers a dream like that. Or two. “I was into that whole the-cosmos-on-my-ceiling thing?”

“You had the constellations down pat,” says Lexa. “You wouldn’t talk to me for days when we moved to a new place that didn’t allow things on the ceilings and the walls.”

“To be young and petty, hm.” Clarke loosens her hold at that, allowing Lexa to pull back; she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps herself in Clarke’s light hold, lingering close beside her.

“We’re no longer young, hm?” Lexa says instead.

 _Indeed._ These days when Clarke looks at the mirror, she sees the years on her face – even those she had lost. “Not a bad thing at all, is it?”

“Not at all.” The way Lexa looks at her though – this tenderness; this awe. It’s like Lexa can’t believe that Clarke is _here,_ after all this time.

(Truth be told, there are times that Clarke _can’t_ , either.)

“About dinner,” says Lexa again, clearing her throat, and just like that the look on her face is gone, and Lexa is smiling like she hadn’t been just looking at Clarke like she was afraid Clarke would suddenly disappear. “I was wondering if you had plans.”

“Well, if eating takeaway in my mother’s kitchen sounds like a plan, then I do,” says Clarke, finishing her soda. “What about you?”

Lexa shrugs. “Takeaway in your mother’s kitchen for two?”

“When you put it that way, it already sounds so much better,” Clarke just says, absently hooking her arm into Lexa’s and leading her out the shop’s door.

*

The night air is crisp against her skin on the way home.

*

Lexa insists on salad, while Clarke demands pizza, so they end up with both. “At least we agreed on chicken wings,” says Clarke, closing the door behind her upon receiving their orders. Lexa laughs from the kitchen, where she is washing the greens.

“For the record, I think ordering an all-veggie pizza _with_ extra bacon is cheating,” says Lexa.

Clarke rolls her eyes as she goes ahead and sets the boxes upon the living room table, in front of the TV. “Whatever, this day deserves it.” And then: “What do you want to watch?”

“Toss-up between zombies and post-apocalypse teen drama, last I heard,” says Lexa. “Your pick.”

Clarke sighs, still flipping channels when Lexa settles next to her and hands her a bowl. “News?” says Clarke, handing the remote over in exchange.

Lexa makes a face. “Too adult.”

“Cartoons?”

“Oooh,” Lexa perks up considerably at the suggestion, only to stop halfway through her browsing, pausing upon hearing a familiar narrating voice. She turns to Clarke, eyes wide with excitement. “ _Space?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ”

And so it goes – so painfully _ordinary_ that it makes Clarke _ache_. Lexa draws her knees up to her chest before reaching over for the slice of pizza that she had resisted all night (“Ugh, Clarke, you are bad for me”) and settling into the couch further. She is still in her khakis, and as the night wears on, Clarke begins contemplating whether to offer her more comfortable clothes.

 _Surely my clothes would fit her?_ Clarke thinks, staring at the flicker of the television playing upon Lexa’s face. For a brief moment, she remembers late nights in the hotel and waking with the TV still on and Lexa sleeping on the chair.

_Would you like to get more comfortable?_

_Would you want some sleep clothes?_

_Would that be so presumptuous?_

Clarke swallows hard. _Fuck it._ “Lexa.”

“Hm?”

She pauses to allow herself a final moment to back out. _Last chance._ “If you want to stay the night, you could.”

Lexa doesn’t take her eyes off the TV, but the small smile on her lips tells Clarke volumes. Clarke holds her breath anyhow. “I know,” says Lexa, though her calm voice does nothing to soothe Clarke’s frayed nerves.

 _How on earth could she be so held together on a night like this?_ Clarke wonders.

“Would you?”

Lexa takes forever to reply, and Clarke keeps still, heart in throat. “Would I what?”

“Stay.”

“If _you_ want.”

Lexa says it so _simply,_ but Clarke knows how such small words could carry so much weight. _Trouble and wanting go hand in hand._ Clarke must have breathed in audibly, because after a moment, Lexa is turning her head, eyes looking for Clarke’s in the dark.

“Clarke?”

Instead of speaking, Clarke finds herself _drawn,_ like a kite whose string is being tugged home. _It all goes back to you,_ she thinks, crawling slowly toward Lexa, bridging the space between. Lexa shifts and extends an arm across the back of the couch, opening up. _Making room._

When Clarke burrows into Lexa’s neck, her eyes flutter close; Lexa smells like cinnamon and long days, and Clarke feels all hollowed out and filled to the brim with _feeling,_ it kind of makes it hard to breathe.

_Breathe, Clarke. Breathe._

“Is this okay?” Lexa speaks quietly over the drone of the TV, all but forgotten now. Clarke just shifts closer, humming at the feel of Lexa’s hand settling warmly upon her shoulder, her own arm tentatively finding a home across Lexa’s waist.

“Is this?” Clarke asks back, smiling as she feels Lexa swallow hard before nodding.

“It is,” Lexa says, tightening her hold around Clarke. “This is a bad idea and you know it, don’t you?”

Clarke does not mean to laugh, not at all, but there’s no other way to respond, really. _We are so, so fucked._ “I could think of worse things,” she just says, gathering Lexa closer.

*

Clarke closes her eyes, but she does not sleep.

_Please, let me keep this one._

*

On the day Clarke and her men finish work at the restaurant, there are balloons and ribbons and wine, and Lexa shows up with a huge bouquet for Clarke. Anya hoots the loudest at the sight.

“Fucking finally,” Raven groans, putting her headphones on at the beginning of her set, and Clarke just rolls her eyes.  Bellamy and Anya are already stationed behind the bar, lining up multi-colored shot glasses, and Clarke feels her mouth go dry at the sight.

“Congratulations,” says Lexa beside her, and _god,_ this button-down is doing nothing for the nagging thirst in Clarke’s throat. “Job well done, Clarke.” Lexa looks up, smile now a grin, and Clarke follows her line of sight out of curiosity—as expected, Lexa is grinning at the constellations that Clarke put in as the final touch.

“You like it?”

“So much.” And then, nodding over to where Anya and Bellamy are now sampling their assembly line of liquor, Lexa just laughs. “I bet they’d enjoy staring at them glow stars once they’re drunk off their faces.”

“Indeed,” says Clarke, laughing along. And then: “These flowers are lovely. Thank you.”

Lexa shrugs, though Clarke could see that tell-tale beginning of a blush already starting along Lexa’s jaw. “Eh. I thought they’d go well with the celebrations.”

“And they do,” says Clarke. “May I offer you a drink in return?”

“If by drink you mean something off the Anya and Bellamy Liquor Assembly Line from Hell, Possibly—”

“Come on, it can’t be _that_ bad.”

“Really?” Lexa throws a sideways glance at the bar, where Anya and Bellamy are alternately laughing and slapping each other. “I would like to test your theory.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Fine. Maybe a beer from the back?”

“Maybe… I’d like to join you there?”

Clarke lifts her brow at that, unable to stifle the smile that spreads across her face. _Easy, just like this._ “Were you just flirting with me right now?” she asks, sliding a hand up Lexa’s arm and pulling her close.

“I know nothing of this _flirting_ you speak of,” says Lexa, blinking innocently as she steps into Clarke’s space. “As far as I’m concerned, _you’re_ the one holding my arm.”

“You gave me flowers.”

“You’re getting us drinks.”

“You probably want to kiss me right now.”

“You’re probably right.”

Clarke laughs out louder, and when she meets Lexa’s eyes she sees a twinkle there that she hasn’t seen in a long while, and right now, the way Lexa’s looking at her reminds her of a night at the island – all promise and no weight.

 _This is a bad idea,_ she tries to remind herself, but Lexa’s leaning in anyway, and _maybe it doesn’t have to be about hurting each other, not anymore._

When Lexa closes the gap, it feels like tilting her face toward the early morning sun after a long, cold night.

* 

“I know what you’re thinking.”

It is hours later, and Clarke is sitting in the restaurant’s backroom in Lexa’s unbuttoned shirt, a hand idly playing with Lexa’s hair.

“You do?” asks Clarke.

Lexa nods, and Clarke shifts closer still, a leg thrown over Lexa’s thigh. The room is pleasantly cool, thanks to an open window and the chilly night outside. They have no idea what time it is; possibly way past midnight, and Clarke could still feel the party’s dying hum through the wall.

“What am I thinking of?” Clarke asks.

“About this time around ending,” says Lexa. “It always does, doesn’t it?”

Clarke sighs. _Everything’s just a moment with you._ She closes her eyes, shifting against Lexa languidly, their bare legs touching in the dark. “We’re skipping straight to that already?”

“Is there a point in avoiding it?” Lexa asks, though her tone is not unkind. She threads her fingers into Clarke’s, thumb rubbing into Clarke’s palm. “Nothing left for you here now that your work at the restaurant is over.”

 _Over. Is that all this is then, this time around – just something to fill a timeline with?_ Clarke tightens her hold around Lexa’s hand. “We are not this restaurant,” she says, her voice thick; her throat cotton-dry.

“We?” asks Lexa, straightening her back against the wall. There is no disbelief there; just curiosity. A strip of hope, maybe.

“ _We,_ ” Clarke repeats. “We are not _nothing._ ”

“Clarke.”

“So what if it’s always ending? Don’t you think this beginning—don’t you think _every beginning_ deserves to be played out anyway? No matter the ending. No matter that it ends anyway.”

“ _Clarke_.”

Clarke shakes her head, grazing the skin of Lexa’s throat with her cheek, relishing that hitch in Lexa’s breath as she does so. “I’m not taking the easy way out this time.”

“None of it has been easy.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be too hard, then.”

There is a long quiet pause, and Clarke shifts again, this time to press her ear against Lexa’s chest, listening in to the muted drumming inside her ribcage; the rise and fall of her breathing.

_Breathe, Lexa. Breathe._

_Maybe it doesn’t have to be about hurting anymore._

_Maybe the trouble in the wanting will be worth it._

After a while, Clarke looks up at the feel of Lexa’s finger under her chin.

“Tell me how you want to do it this time, then.”

Clarke takes a moment to stare into Lexa’s eyes -- _all new beginnings are wondrous and frightful things,_ she just thinks, pausing to let the moment wash over her – all promise, no weight.

 


End file.
